October 14, 2006

October 2006, Vol. 5, Issue 10

1. October Subway Stories by Paul McGuire
A hunched-over bum slowly navigated his way through the crowded car and sat down in an empty seat next to me. He carried a big black bulky garbage bag which happened to be the standard issue for every homeless person in the city along with the same pair of sneakers four sizes too big and a ratty grey winter coat... More

2. Roots - Part II by Doog
To soothe the ache deep in his soul, Leo G took solace in the welcoming arms of lovely young nubile chickadees, sometimes several sets of arms at the same time. After all, when you’ve got dashing good looks, a mercury-silver tongue, and the willingness to use the above in a less-than-moral manner, why not?... More

3. Gummy by C. Anderson Guthrie
This woman wasn't the kind of woman you bring home to momma, oh no -- she was the kind of woman that takes out her teeth before giving an alleyway blowjob. You know, the considerate type... More

4. Total Recall by Joe Speaker
I was grilling another young co-ed, flirtatious pressure amidst the stench of spilled beer and rampaging testosterone. The scene was cliched, she said, and she marked me down as a typical frat boy, interested only in getting drunk and getting naked... More

5. Until I Am No Longer Needed by Sean A. Donahue
My back felt the brunt of the pain and as the dust settled I examined my predicament. I was ten feet down in a hole of an ancient volcano with my right arm broken and my left leg shattered... More

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been...

From the Editor's Laptop:

Welcome back to another issue of Truckin'. We're on time this month which is remarkable that we're on track again. This epic October issue features five returning authors including C. Anderson Guthrie with his first story for 2006. The always talented Joe Speaker shares a touching tale as Doog weaves Part II of his Roots series. Sean A. Donahue is also back and I wrote up a few random subway stories that I encountered during my first few weeks back in the big city.

I ask that if you like these stories, then please do me and the rest of the writers a huge favor: Tell your friends about your favorite stories. It takes a few seconds to pass along the URL. I certainly appreciate your support. Feel free to shoot me an e-mail if you know anyone who is interested in being added to the mailing list.

Thanks to everyone who took a leap of faith with me this month and submitted their bloodwork. I'm extremely lucky to share the same space with talented scribes. I always say that the other contributing authors inspire me, because it's true. You guys write for free and if I could pay you, I would. Your time and effort is worth more money than I can ever afford to pay.

Thanks again. I am grateful that you wasted your time with Truckin'. Until next time.


"I've never know any trouble than an hour's reading didn't assuage." - Arthur Schopenhauer

October Subway Stories

By Paul McGuire © 2006

It was Friday night as the Number 1 train raced from Columbia University downtown. A hunched-over bum slowly navigated his way through the crowded car and sat down in an empty seat next to me. He carried a big black bulky garbage bag which happened to be the standard issue for every homeless person in the city along with the same pair of sneakers four sizes too big and a ratty grey winter coat, even in the middle of the summer. I held my nose and scanned the rest of the car for a different seat. On my right sat a guy in a tuxedo. And as the Rooster guessed when I told him this story... the guy in the tux was black and the homeless guy was white.

* * * * *

Playing poker has trained me to make snap judgments about people whom I've never met before. I quickly assess their clothing and body language in order to piece together a psychological profile. A young brunette in her early thirties sat down next to me. She wore hipster jeans and clutched a Kate Spade hand bag. Her shoes looked expensive and she carried a pink and red Victoria's Secret shopping bag. For a weekday afternoon, based on her casual attire she didn't look like she was going to or coming from work.

When I saw the gaudy rock on her left hand, I pegged her for a lonely Upper West side housewife. She dug into her purse and I muttered to myself, "Here comes the chick lit book."

And on cue, she pulled out Something Blue by Emily Giffin. I had her pegged perfectly. I then tried to guess her stop. I picked 79th Street and was wrong when she got up at 72nd Street.

* * * * *

One rainy weekday morning I survived sitting in the corner of the packed subway with a type-A working mom, who dragged her two young kids along with her. They all scurried onto the subway during the peak of morning rush hour. The mother whizzed through her Palm Pilot as the youngest kid, about six years old, struggled to put her pink socks on. Since the family was running late, the girl had thrown on her sneakers without socks and ran out the door of their apartment. Her mother scolded her youngest child as the girl struggled to put on her socks on the unsteady train.

The other daughter sat next to me, carefully doing her math homework as I sat in silence. The mother divided her attention between her Palm Pilot and scorning her youngest daughter for being slow and unprepared, as she helped correct her oldest daughter's homework.

"These girls are going to hate you in a few years," I thought as the mother continued to make condescending remarks to both her children.

"I'm not going to help you," the mother snapped at the little one. "This is what you get for watching TV instead of getting ready for school."

* * * * *

The midnight hour on the subway during Friday and Saturday are filled with late night partiers. A new wave of fresh smelling and dark color-clad hipsters were ready to go out, while a wave of drunks were stumbling home on the subway. Their conversations were always louder and rowdier than the rest of the passengers’.

A group of six Columbia girls yapped about a number of innocuous subjects. When a seat opened up next to me, one of the loudest coeds plopped down. She looked like a younger version of Susan Sarandon and pulled a pair of brick red Jimmy Choo shoes off her feet.

"I'm never wearing these out ever again!" she screamed, trying to illicit sympathy from anyone within earshot. "I paid $500 for this pain."

She rubbed both of her blistered heels and asked if any of her friends would carry her back to her dorm.

"I can't wait to change my clothes, then jump into bed to do a shot of vodka. Then I'm going to watch One Tree Hill."

"You know," I interrupted. "Those are really nice shoes. You have great taste. But that's the last thing a guy is going to notice... is your shoes. You could have worn a pair of $10 flip flops and a guy wouldn't care. Tits, ass, and face. Just focus on that because that's all guys care about. And the more we drink the less we care about those three."

Paul McGuire is a writer from New York City.


By C. Anderson Guthrie © 2006

This woman wasn't the kind of woman you bring home to momma, oh no -- she was the kind of woman that takes out her teeth before giving an alleyway blowjob. You know, the considerate type.

She spun around on the barstool, sloppily leaned back, propped her elbows on the bar, turned towards me and asked a question.

"Hey man, how oad are you?" she slurred.

My eyes fixed on the 1/4" gap between her front teeth, without trying to draw attention to the fact that I was mesmerized. Kind of like when you're trying not to stare at some massive cleavage, only these tits were teeth that didn't quite meet in the middle. I couldn't help thinking about grandma.


My short response was meant to effectively end the conversation before it got up to speed, but she didn't take the hint.

"You gots any kids?"

If I had been a little bit quicker and a little less drunk, I would've spun some lie about how my wife was at home, waiting for her water to break announcing the arrival or our third beautiful baby. But, the only thing I could think of under such pressure was "No." Bright one, this.

I scanned the bar looking for an out, a reason to get the fuck away from this woman without having to tell her to get the fuck away from me. It was bar poker night, but I had arrived late, after the tournament had already started and was unable to use that as an excuse. Also, I couldn't just leave; the bartender had just poured me another hefe, and I wasn't very well going to leave a full beer until it was safe in my stomach.

So, I hunched on my stool, took an enormous, disinterested drink from my pint of Widmer Hefe, and tried to wait her out. Tried not to make eye contact. Tried to look gay.

It didn't work.

"Cuz youse a real nith lookin' man, thath what I'm tryin' to thay. Yee-up." She lithped.

If you've never seen an overweight, drunk, gap-toothed, 45-year old slob try to act coy, consider yourself lucky. Me, I'm not so lucky, never have been. And let me tell you, folks, it ain't pretty. I think the word that popped into my head that night was "disgusting."

That's just a small portion of my Monday night. After getting all moved into my new place, I decided to go on the hunt for a new bar. A new "my bar" kind of place. I stopped at five or six bars that night, and I can tell you which bars aren't going to be my bar, that's for sure. It isn't going to be the place with the $5.50 pints of Bud Light. It isn't going to be the place across from a certain local gentlemen's establishment, even though I witnessed one of the talent (a little chubby) stuffing her face, pre-shift, with greasy chicken wings and Grand Marnier, and that might be indicative of the kinds of stories just waiting to be pulled from there.

On second thought, I'm not going to cross that bar off my list quite yet.

My bar isn't going to be the place with cheap Widmer on tap, either; I'm afraid just too afraid of Gummy The Lush. But the search continues, and it's not going to stop until I find a place where I don't feel like I'm going to get rolled or propositioned for sex on the way to the bathroom.

I save those things for the Girlfriend.

C. Anderson Guthrie is a writer and poker player from Minneapolis, MN.

Roots - Part II

By Doog © 2006

Editor's Note: You can find the first installment here.

It was the summer of 1942, and America was at war. Europe was a bloody mess, the battle for the Pacific raged. Young boys strapped on their helmets, grabbed a carbine, and entered the fray, not nearly prepared for the horror that is war. Those who returned were no longer boys, but physically and emotionally scarred men deified as heroes. Those who did not return were deified as martyrs.

Leo G was neither, for he never went. Not for lack of wanting; in fact, he desperately yearned to sign up. The desire to fight back at the evil Nazi war machine burned bright within his Polish-Jewish heart. Fanning those flames into a burning maelstrom were the tales that trickled through to his parents - tales of friends beaten, family members killed, simply for the crime of being born of a certain ethnicity.

Neither was it for lack of trying that Leo G never went to war. Even though he was not quite of age, he made his way to the recruiting station and was able to talk his way through the initial screening. (Not only was he raised as a gangster, but he was also quite the con man too. Think Frank Abegnale Jr. meets Roy Dillon.) Unluckily for Leo G, a bum hip suffered in a bicycle vs. vehicle accident two or three years before resulted in his being medically disqualified from service in the armed forces.

Leo G was pissed. If there’s one thing that he knew well from growing up with the mob, it was the importance of family. His family was being kicked in the junk in a most brutal way, and he was not allowed to even attempt to kick back.

To soothe the ache deep in his soul, Leo G took solace in the welcoming arms of lovely young nubile chickadees, sometimes several sets of arms at the same time. After all, when you’ve got dashing good looks, a mercury-silver tongue, and the willingness to use the above in a less-than-moral manner, why not? And the fact that many of these lady friends were the wives or girlfriends of servicemen liberating Europe or bleeding in the South Pacific was just Leo G's way of screwing the system that he felt had screwed him.

It was during one of these encounters that Leo G chanced upon a life-changing discovery. His current coquette's husband was home on leave, but reported for a day to a nearby airbase. Keeping perfectly in character, Leo G took the opportunity to re-familiarize himself with this airman's wife during a mid-day romp. When the adulteress stepped out to the grocer, Leo G noticed a uniform hanging in the bedroom closet. A pilot's uniform. Just for shits and grins, he tried it on and examined himself in the mirror. Salad bar on the breast, pilot’s wings sparkling from the collar, an exact fit. Lookin' good, Leo.

Wearing the uniform, he left the house and never returned.

After the novelty of strolling the boulevards of Gotham and receiving uniform-inspired deference wore off, Leo G discovered that Air Force threads combined with just a little smooth talk allowed him access to just about any military installation he chose; the benefits of military life were his for the taking. First on the list were the duty-free stores (mostly for smokes and liquor); next, he discovered the Officer’s Clubs and golf courses. Before long, Leo G was just another Good Old Boy in the American Armed Forces - never mind that he wasn't actually in the service. Leo G was never one to bother himself with such trivialities.

During one such foray to an air base, Leo G saw a parked troop transport plane with a queue leading to the passenger door. Through innocent inquiry, he learned that the plane was flying to San Francisco. Leo G, who had never been to California but had always wanted to go, stepped into line. Arriving at the front of the line, Leo G spun a yarn about being back home on leave, and his girl is in California, and his bags got lost on the hop over the pond, you know how it is, and his bags had all his papers in them, and he's only home for two weeks before heading back to Europe to play peek-a-boo with the Luftwaffe, and he really wants to see his girl, he needs to see his girl, can't you just do a guy a favor?

Once on board, Leo G settled into his seat with visions of sunny beaches and California women dancing through his head. But his anticipation turned sour when, shortly after takeoff, the plane's commander stepped back into the cabin, tapped Leo G on the shoulder, and motioned toward the cockpit. Hesitantly, Leo G made his way forward.

"I saw your wings," the pilot began, "And I really need a favor. Look - me and my left seat really tied one on last night. He wasn't even able to make it to the base today. Me, I'm in no shape to be driving this thing.."

"Okay..." Leo G replied, uncomprehending.

The pilot persisted, "I know you're on leave, and ordinarily I would never ask, but I really need some help. Could you just point the plane west while I get some shuteye in the cabin?"

Leo G looked at the cockpit seats with widening eyes. "Um, sure… no problem."

"Thanks, I really appreciate it."

Regaining his wherewithal, Leo G turned to the pilot, patted him on the shoulder, and compassionately said, "You go get some rest."

And then Leo G sat down at the controls of a military aircraft flying five miles above the ground. Problem was, Leo G sat down in the navigator’s seat, not the pilot’s seat.


The commander immediately knew that something was amiss, but he still retreated to the main cabin to sort things out in his head. Five minutes later, he returned to the cockpit to find Leo G still comfortable ensconced in the wrong seat, autopilot still flying the airplane.

"You know," the pilot began, "It's just not right - me asking you to do this when you're on leave. I’ll be okay - you just go on back in the cabin and enjoy the flight."

With feigned reluctance, Leo G agreed, and settled back into the main cabin. When the airplane arrived in California, the disembarking passengers were surprised to see a squad of MP's waiting for them – all except for the plane's commander, that is.

Once the interrogation was complete, and the nation's military was satisfied that Leo G was not a dissident intent on witnessing dreadful harm upon American servicemen or perhaps a German spy stealing military secrets, Leo G was charged with theft of military property and one count of abduction for each passenger on the plane - hundreds of charges, in all.

And that's the story of how Leo G ended up in the Federal Penitentiary.

For the first time, that is.

Doog lives in California, is married with two young children, is a complete donk of a poker player while being a kick-ass poker blogger. He’s also the most modest, humble person you’ll ever meet, should you have the esteemed privilege.

Total Recall

By Joe Speaker © 2006

She thought I was a jerk, she told me later. The first time she saw me, I was leaning on my right arm, which was pressed against the paneled walls of my fraternity’s rec room. I was grilling another young co-ed, flirtatious pressure amidst the stench of spilled beer and rampaging testosterone. The scene was cliched, she said, and she marked me down as a typical frat boy, interested only in getting drunk and getting naked. I never did remember who that girl against the wall was, but before the night was over, I'd met someone I can't forget.

I was introduced by her friend Kelly, a chirpy blonde sorority pledge whom I'd met briefly at another party. Emma was her contrast, dark hair, petite (five-foot-two..."and three-quarters!" she'd always add), her slim waist giving way to inviting hips. Taken separately, her features would seem odd, a walking Picasso. Her nose was long, with a unique extension on the end, as if it had been placed there later. Her teeth were adorably crooked with a slight overbite. Her eyes turned to gleeful slits when she laughed. But together, they fit her face, framed with high cheekbones and a strong chin.

We danced, and the way she moved stirred me, forcing heat through the keg-induced haze and sharpening my senses. Her hips seemed to bend every which way, effortlessly, the enticing curve of her backside rotating, thumping.

I thought I was doing well with her. We laughed, we drank, subtle touches and probing questions. She was leaving, she said, and I offered to walk her and Kelly back to their apartment just a block away. She demurred, shook my hand and walked out of my life.


Durazo was a pledge brother, a couple years older than I, more confident, more strident. "I thought of you because you won't make an ass out of yourself," he said, by way of explaining why he'd invited me to join he and his latest lady friend--and her roommates--on a Friday night trip to Tijuana. "And you won't try to hit on my girl...like Alter or Rich." I laughed.

"No problem," I said. "What about the friends?"

"All cute. One's annoying as hell, but she's got a boyfriend. Then there's this Hawaiian chick, a little stuck up. The third, I think you'll like her."


We knocked on the door and Kelly answered. We were both startled to see each other and my heart started jackhammering in my chest. Recovering, she kissed Durazo and invited us in before adjourning to the bedroom. We shot the shit with the other boyfriend, a guy in a wheelchair whose name now escapes me but who I saw many years later on a short-lived primetime soap opera. When Emma emerged from the bedroom, confidently, my stomach did a little flip.

"Hi!" I blurted too loudly, rising from the couch and giving her an awkward hug. It had been six weeks since that first meeting and she had crossed my mind on several occasions. There and then, the night grew in promise and we immediately set about reconnecting.


Margarita's Village was a staple on the SDSU Underage Drinking Circuit, but this was the first time I'd made it to the underground lair on the always festive Avenida de Revolucion. The seven of us sat around a table drinking swiftly, like kids hell-bent on cramming as much fun as possible into their first day of summer vacation. Emma sat to my left and because of the noise, I was forced to talk close into her ear, a frequent act which made me feverish. We danced some more, those hips beckoning.

Ever had a tequila popper in Mexico? I hadn't either, so when I was seized from behind and involuntarily forced to consume alcohol in a hailstorm of whistles, complete with the requisite neck-snapping by the waiter, I briefly thought I was being jumped. The guy nearly tore my head off, relishing the act and the shocked gringo response. My tablemates laughed at my naivete, which I took good-naturedly, but every time I hear a whistle in Tijuana—to this day--I instinctively assume the duck and cover position.

The popper took my drunkeness to new heights and with it, my boldness. Soon, my hand was lingering on Emma's thigh. Our dancing became more overt, closer. At one point, leaning into her again to speak, I turned her chin toward me and kissed her softly, momentarily. For years after she would term any resemblance to that moment's tenderness a "Mexico Kiss."

We spent that night together and with one other before the Winter Break commenced. We both went to our respective homes at different ends of the state and had just limited phone contact those five weeks. For my part, I was looking forward to seeing her again, in the typical manner of a sex-crazed 18-year old. I would soon find out her anticipation was considerably less.

That first night back in San Diego, she was distant. I stayed at her apartment because the dorms didn't open until the next morning and all I got was stilted conversation and a buddy hug. Days later, she'd admit that she had gotten back together with her high school boyfriend over the break and that she was trying to figure out what she wanted. I was able to slough off this news, in the typical manner of a sex-crazed 18-year old. I was at San Diego State, where 70% of the student population had an STD. They didn't get that way from being chaste.


About a month later, I was again at the Frat House, talking outside with a dirty blonde sporting a nice rack (though I would find out many months later, after she gave it up for my roommate, that she had hairy nipples). It was going well and as midnight approached, I began to seal the deal. All at once, the lights went out, plunging the patio into darkness and eliciting drunken whoops from the masses. Laughing, I rubbed Karen (yes, I remember this one's name) on the shoulder and said I was going to go find out what happened. As I carefully strode away, the lights returned and I was staring face-to-face at Emma.

She greeted me enthusiastically, a tight hug, a kiss on the cheek, those crooked teeth grinning wide. Karen became an afterthought and, for the next couple of hours, Emma and I caught up. She was different, more open, than the last time I'd seen her and while she didn't take me home (or let me walk her home), she did agree to join me the next afternoon at a picnic with people from my dorm room floor.

It was early March and the weather in American's Finest City was postcard perfect. Emma showed up at my room in a yellow sundress. The thin straps clung invitingly to her wintry white shoulders. The hem came down to her mid-thigh and seemed to float there, a willowy destination, a secret promise. I hugged her and was enveloped by her scent, fresh and reassuring, like spring itself. I never left her side all afternoon, so intoxicated was I by her presence. She had an easy manner about her, comfortably meeting all my friends, joining the conversations and laughing gaily. I couldn't keep my hands off her and she accepted my touches, reciprocating with caresses of her own. Suddenly, in the midst of it all, she leaned into me and whispered in my ear, "Let's go back to your room."

My roommate, a foul, sloppy young man named Chris was out of town for the weekend, so we were alone. The expiring afternoon light forced its way through our tattered curtains as Emma sat on my thin mattress, her delicate calves crossed, feet hovering over the pock-marked linoleum floor. I leaned over and kissed her, using one hand to steady myself, the other to run my hand up her thigh, brushing the hem of her sundress, cautiously moving it aside. She fairly pulled me into her and we crashed unconsciously onto the lumpy bed. But this was not an assault. It was a dance, a tango. We took our time with each other's bodies, pausing to breathe, examining every inch. The sundress remained, though folded and pulled and hiked, its cotton arousing to the touch, tickling like a feather. The heat of our coupling caused perspiration, tangy and sweet, like morning dew, and it mixed with her perfume in an alluring potion, a unique aroma I've not smelled since, nor ever forgotten.

We spent the rest of the day there, napping from pure spent emotion, waking again to explore. Dusk fell and still we held each other, our bodies slick and mingling. I never wanted her to leave, telling her so as darkness surrounded us. Neither of us moved for a light or a candle, only lay there, seeing by touch, by memory. She said she'd stay and she did, even as the whole experience took on a hazy, dream-like quality, endorphins retreating, leaving behind only indelible recall, footprints in my memory.

She left in the morning, but only physically. Her touches lingered on my skin, her kisses resonated into the pit of my stomach. I fell in love with Emma that day, deeply, unassailably. It was a reckless love, the hard-headed and cocksure belief of two young people not really ready for the demands of the emotion. We thought we were, but when we were married less than six months later, we doomed ourselves to hard lessons. Still, that afternoon, that sundress, that woman. Nobody since has touched the part of me she did that day. I suppose that's one of the reasons I can recall it so vividly, more than 20 years later. It rustles some leaves, this recall, sweeps the cover off some other dormant memories. Makes me wonder how she's doing. Makes me wonder if she remembers, too.

Joe Speaker is a writer from Southern California.

Until I Am No Longer Needed

By Sean A. Donahue © 2006

Those words echoed in my head today but years ago - close to one hundred years ago - I thought I was just being cute. You see, on my trip to Hawaii with my parents I had gone on a tour of an ancient volcanic site. I was excited to see the power and fury of a site that was once feared.

As I backed up to take a picture I tripped and fell into a hole.

"We're coming to get you Sean," they said as I brushed myself off.

I hurt from everywhere, the fall from ten feet caused me to have pain from the tips of my fingers to the tips of my toes. My back felt the brunt of the pain and as the dust settled I examined my predicament. I was ten feet down in a hole of an ancient volcano with my right arm broken and my left leg shattered. I felt with my left arm what was causing my pain in my lower back.

Now, you know it's hard to believe, but I'll try it anyway.

It was a bottle.

Now me being the sarcastic S.O.B. that I am, I immediately opened the bottle to watch the smoke rising from it. Coughing, I threw the bottle away and looked as the smoke cleared.

It was a man. Dressed as if he had been stuck in there since the twenties. He looked like he was one of the Rat Pack. I laughed.

"I discovered Frank Sinatra in a bottle," I laughed.

"Come, come, you should be nicer to me in the predicament you're in," he said smugly.

"Let me guess, make three wishes and my life will be different," I laughed trying not to move as I felt light headed as blood rushed from my leg.

"Let's take care of an immediate wish, consider this a freebie," Frank said as he touched his tie.

My arm stopped bleeding, my leg was still broken, but not as bad as it was before and my right arm felt no pain.

"I've gotta be in shock," I said.

"Nope, but choose the wording of your wishes wisely. Void where prohibited by law, you must be 18, I cannot hurt anyone or kill anyone no matter how much you try. Carpe Diem," he sputtered in quick legalese.

"I want to win the largest lottery in history, 1 Billion Dollars," I said.

"Yeah, yeah the money thing," Frank said as I looked around.

"Where is it?" I asked.

"Check your wallet when you get home, the rescuers will be here in 4.73 minutes. Let's get going with your second wish," he urged.

"I want to be able to know when people are trying to take advantage of me and be able to not let people take advantage of me," I stated.

Frank thought for a second.

"You want to be able to limit the ability of people to use you without your own consent," he restated.



"And I want to live until I am no longer needed," I finished.

"Unusual, you want to live until the people you are around no longer need you. DONE," Frank said in a puff of smoke.

When I woke up I was in the hospital.

I had been in a coma for 164 days.

They called me the Maui Miracle. When I returned to the states I went to my home and found my neighbor Tina there. I found Tina attractive but she had never given me the time of day. I thanked her for watching my dog and she seemed to have a white halo around her. I thought to myself, "That's strange, never noticed that before. I better let the doctor know my prescription must have changed after the accident."

I returned to my house to find it barely dusted and cleaned. Mugsy had been taken care of but nothing else had been. There was a pile of bills that had been separated by my family I think into junk mail, bills, more bills and even more bills.

I laughed to myself as I thought boy, was that one crazy dream I had.

I decided to clean out my house and start my life over again. I cleaned up and started the long road back. Now I am a very meticulous man. I have a place for everything and everything in its place. So I entered all the bills into my computer. I was deeply in debt and my job was gone. I checked my wallet to see that I had $42 left.

But I found a Mega Millions ticket. I went to the nearest 7-11 to check out how much it was worth.

The clerk just started shaking. "You’re the one they are looking for," he said.

"Yeah, yeah I know the Maui Miracle."

"No. Sign here. I’m calling the papers. You better head down to Austin. I'd guard that thing with my life," he said as he shook uncontrollably. "Yeah, boss, I have the Mega Millions winning ticket here," the clerk said as I walked away. I was shaken as I saw a green aura come over the clerk.

"Don't leave, I'm calling the papers next," he said as I ran to my car.

Everything became a blur to me. I was still having colored flashes as people came up to me. Everything was crazy. I slowly learned the colors and their meaning, red for anger, green for envy, white for purity, orange for confusion and black for evil.

Funny, I didn't think I would see so many men of the cloth with black auras, but I digress.

I went to Austin and claimed the $963 million prize as sole winner of the Mega Millions lottery.

My life changed immediately. I made college funds for the kids, went and paid my bills and took care of my family and friends. And I still had $800 million left. You see, I had $578 million after the taxes were paid off and I invested here and there. I couldn't give away the money fast enough.

I gave money to charities with my foundation, giving $20 million to my favorite charities each year, which increased to a $100 million when my money grew exponentially.

But as the years went by I watched as loved ones slowly turned from white to orange with one friend going from white to red to green to orange and finally black before he killed himself.

I grew older and watched my loved ones die one by one.

I watched my parents leave this earth. Followed by my brothers and sisters, then my children.

But I lived on…

I couldn't live on; I was tired. I wanted to just join my family in the everlasting.

But the interest of my accounts grew and the money grew. I established a living will where my pet charities received $100 million a year until I died. Then the rest of the money would go to my heirs.

But I didn't die. I kept living and living.

One day as I lay on my bed praying for the end to come I had a vision.

It was the members of my pet charities, all their auras black hoping I would live for yet another year so they would get their money. I saw members of my extended family long past grand, grand, grand children all their auras black with evil. All hoping I would die.

And then my words came back to haunt me. I would live until I was no longer needed.

Both sides tugged at my soul.

And then everything went black.

"Sean? We're coming to get you..."

Sean A. Donahue is a freelance writer, radio personality and poker player. He is the author of Instant Tragedy which looks at his life and those who he has touched and been touched by. He is divorced with two children and lives in Lubbock, Texas.